This is one of those entries. I have a thought, something not quite formed into a fully functional idea, and before I’m even done having it I can feel Mr. Goatypants breathing down my neck, pushing his fingers into my discomfort, and I know in that moment I’m going to have to write another one of those blog posts that I don’t feel entirely comfortable sharing with a public audience. So there’s your disclaimer.

As I’ve said here and elsewhere, on December 28th I am scheduled for a fairly risky surgery that the doctors are being very clear with me that my survival chances are not 100%, or even 80%. I have found it difficult to write about all the stuff that’s been going through my head, because I really don’t want people to think I’m some melodramatic queen with his hand glued to his forehead running around hollering “Oh, woe is me! Woooooe is me!” It’s not like right now, sitting at my computer, I am the typical picture of someone facing death; I’m not sickly pale (at least, not any more that usual for this Irish/Germanic redhead), I don’t weigh 90lbs with a yellow pallor to my skin. I look like everyday normal Del, walking and talking like usual. The only clues you’d have that something is amiss is that I might walk a little slower than normal for me, or I might be using my wheelchair a little more often; maybe you catch a glimpse of the large bandage on my back, or a lump in my pants where my rather large drain is hiding from view. You might see me grimace in pain, or rub my belly to help get through a cramp. But there are lots of days when I could be at a party, or shopping in the grocery store, and you’d have no idea that with every breath, I’m contemplating my death.

I’m also aware that I’m going to feel like a pretty big dolt if I come through the surgery with flying colors, regardless of whatever spiritual journey my soul takes while I’m under anesthesia. I mean, we can all hope that the on-call cardiologist will be sitting there reading the Wall Street Journal (or, if my life is at all predictable, 50 Shades of Gray). Instead of a 12 hour marathon, it has a chance of being a 6 hour jog. With luck, I’ll only have to spend a few hours or a day in ICU to stabilize, rather than the grim prediction that I will wake up on a respirator and take days to come off of it. I will feel incredibly embarrassed if I got all emo about things, only to find out it was a normal day at the office for everyone.

I’ve also been kind of vague as to why something as ho-hum as a tummy tuck carries all this risk for me. I have my reasons, and the biggest one is it’s (finally) a detail that Baphomet has not forced me to share, and I’ve learned to take my privacy where I can get it. I’ve been answering a lot of email, and started a small working group on Wiggio for those who are actively interested in helping out. They get the brunt of my Victorian wailing and detailed outpourings about how I think every single thing that has happened to me in the last four months is somehow of utmost importance now.

So where does that all leave me? Inside my head, there’s this giant grandfather clock, ticking away every second between now and 8am December 28th, when I plan to inhale from that intimidating mask (and this time, they can’t trick me into thinking it’s oxygen…fool me once!) I look at my calendar, and all I see is drudgery – doctor’s appointments, looking at apartments, finalizing my handparting with STBX, dealing with the bureaucracy involved with my shiny new legal name change – and then over the weekend, where I was very much having fun with the Boyfriend, I had a thought…

You know all those awkward conversations you have with people when you’re first getting to know them? Where you ask them questions like “If you could have any superpower, what would it be?” (Paint. That is the superpower I would want. Ask me sometime.) One of those question is usually something like:

If you have 24 hours left to live, what would you do with the time you have left?

Well, I’m pretty damn sure that in all the times I’ve asked someone that question, their answer was never “Go to three doctor’s appointments, make a hotel reservation, and check your bank balance to make sure you have enough money to pay that bill.”

So I started looking at December again. Whether or not I’m actually going to die on the 28th, who is it going to hurt to take a few chances, to get in some fun and enriching experiences, while I still have the time. I started looking at the available days I have left, and daydreamed about the fun stuff I could do.

I won’t list the entire list here, but I’ll give you a taste:

Go to a strip club and get a lap dance from the most attractive (or skeevy, depending on the joint) dancer

Go to Rocky Horror at least once

Make one day memorable in some way for the handful of my closest peoples.

Go out to a ridiculously expensive and lavish dinner. (I’m thinking either steak or sushi. Who’s in?)

It made me realize, too, that this month I have to find that tipping point on the spectrum being Living and Dying. Although it’s my Job-with-a-capital-J to be “The Dying Man”, I best remember to spend some time this month being “The Living Man” too. So who is up for some shenangians? Email me! I’ll likely say yes to whatever wackiness you’re willing to drive me to!